5051 Bartley Square

Summary: The story of the most haunted house in London...and its victims.

From Ghosts of the British Isle

In a rather
dumpy section of ancient London, where tall monuments loom over narrow lanes
and the sun is rarely beheld, there sits in the shadow of a defunct meatpacking
plant Bartley Square, a row of tall, slender townhomes enshrouded in perpetual
darkness. There are four separate domiciles in one, each adhering to the same
rough diameter and layout: 5050, 5051, and 5052. The flanking two have no
notable qualities, it’s the middle one that we are concerned with, for here is
centered the most bizarre case of the supernatural that I, in my long and
illustrious career, have ever encountered.

The
homes at Bartley were originally one, built in 1790 by Lord Mulberry, an astute
and God-fearing gentleman who had commanded a rather large force at Yorktown.
Construction began in the sweltering summer, and ran through 1791, many of the
labourers being African slaves secretly imported from a planter cousin of Lord
Mulberry’s in Virginia. Several of them were said to have died and been
entombed in the foundation for fear of detection, but these savory bits should
be taken with more than a grain of salt, as stories of fallen workmen bricked
up have been making the English rounds since the 1680s, when it was discovered
that a foreman was sealed up in Jamaica Lane after an unfortunate accident.
Today, there is no motivation to tear up Bartley Square and see, so a healthy
dose of skepticism should be employed.

Either
way, the home was finished in September of the aforementioned year, and Lord
Mulberry moved in with his young daughter on the twenty-fifth. Little seems to
have distinguished 50 Bartley, as it was then known, from its surroundings. At
the time that part of the city was fashionable, and between 1788 and 1828 many
opulent homes were risen. Lords and poets and wealthy landowners mingled in the
sun washed thoroughfare, and life flowed languidly on as it does in such
places. In 1801, the highly regarded Pastor Buckles took over the local church
in Stoker Street, and for many years his weekly service was attended by masses
of the regal and sophisticated. Lord Byron lived for a time not far from
Bartley before leaving for the Continent, and his place was briefly taken by a
group of bohemians who anonymously published Reflections in August, a
compilation of poems still highly regarded in English and American academic
circles.

Lord
Mulberry grew old and died, as the natural course of time dictated, and the
home passed to his daughter and her army captain husband, who had moved to the
north. In May, 1819, they took possession of the house at Bartley, which had
been kept for a year by a young Negro couple brought from Massachusetts in 1815
to look after the ailing Lord. The husband, who had frequent business in
Manchester, was often gone for long periods of time, leaving his wife in the
sole company of their maid, a warm Greek woman. He was home only several times
during 1821, the last in March, when a mysterious fire broke out in the lower
portion of the home.

The
next morning, cresting dawn shewed the extent of the blaze, which had burned
with freakish intensity most of the night; Bartley was a blackened shell of its
former self, quite literally. The only survivor was the maid, who jumped from
the attic window to the cold cobblestones below and broke her arm. She was
understandably incoherent as she was led away by concerned neighbors, babbling
on and on about black things that reached out from the flames.

For
several long years, Bartley sat in decrepit abandonment. During this time odd
noises, thumps and whispering voices, were reported by neighbors. One man, who
had grown tired Bartley acting as an inn for the homeless (so he thought it
was), rushed into the charred skeleton one midnight to confront whoever needed
confronting, and found the place entirely deserted.

By
the late 1830s, the region had begun to stagnate, and many of the wealthy
residents left, leasing their homes out to the lower class sorts that poured in
like ants to a fleshy carcass. In 1835, a shrewd investor named Roger Watson
purchased the hallow framework of Bartley, and in 1838 finished massive
renovations, dividing the gross area and opening it as three homes in one.
While it wasn’t an architectural delight, the new Bartley Square was clean,
moderately pleasing, and reasonably priced. In 1840, it was rented by an
elderly widow named Freely from Newcastle who took up residence in December.

With
her were two companions that she had neglected to mention, one a Persian cat,
which I’m sure Wilson wouldn’t have objected to, and the other her adult son,
Jonathan, who had been diagnosed as a teenager with insanity. He had been in
several institutions over the years, but his mother found the conditions
appalling, and decided to care for him herself. Locking him in the attic and
feeding him through a hole in the heavy door seemed perfectly humane to her,
and that’s what she had done at her previous lodgings.

She
was cast out because of her son’s tendency to scream and beat his head against
the walls at night. She fully didn’t expect to be long at Bartley Square before
she was evicted again, and that appears to have been a reasonable assumption.
But it so happened that Jonathan only had several nights to disturb the peace
before he choked to death on a bit of gruel, alone in the attic.

As
you might expect from a grieving mother, she quickly fled from painful memories
of her son and, it has been rumored, a police investigation. Wilson, who had
managed to keep the whole dreadful affair under wraps, almost immediately found
a young, recently married couple to lease 5051. They left after a week,
complaining of odd sounds coming from the attic. An old Frenchman then moved
in, and left several months later, saying that on several occasions he had
heard the most ghastly thumps, grunts and groans in the night.

The
last to inhabit the house was a young third-class family who escaped in the
night twenty-eight days after moving in. Enraged, Watson is said to have
followed them to a relative’s home and dragged the tale from the reluctant
father: Not only had inexplicable voices and footsteps been heard in the attic,
but the daughter, seven or eight, had been choked awake by “a monster” one
night in her upper bedroom. Their mad flight came only after a week of
nightmares on the part of the children (who had taken to sleeping with their
parents), and an assault on the father by something in that same upstairs room,
which he had taken to prove to his children that no “ghosts lived there.”

Watson
knew then that something was wrong with Bartley, and immediately, before talk
could spread, sold the townhouse to an American investor. By this time, most of
South London was abuzz with the “haunting,” and several passersby claimed to
have seen a ghostly face peer from the attic window at night.

Soon,
Bartley was entirely deserted, and the perplexed American hired an impoverished
elderly couple to act as live-in caretakers. Within a week the old woman died
in the upper bedroom whilst folding sheets. Her husband told an inquiry that he
was at the breakfast table when he heard a short scream and a great thump. Upon
entering the room, he found his beloved lying on the floor, her face bloodless
and twisted in primal terror.

Deep
in mourning and suddenly afraid, the old man appealed to his master to assign
him to other duties, but was told to hold down Bartley or leave. The American did,
however, send his young niece to keep the old man company and to supplement his
meager janitorial powers.

She
lasted not even a month. On a Tuesday, her fifth on the job, the old man was
preparing dinner when a horrid wail issued from upstairs.

He
found her huddled in a corner, her face white and her eyes staining
grotesquely. She pointed to a spot next to the man and babbled hysterically
about “it.”

With
her insanity and eventual death, an ember flared, and suddenly the entire city
was talking about the wretched place “down south.” One of those who happened to
overhear such babble was Lord Westover, a notorious dandy and rake who, on a
damp night in November, stopped into a pub not too far north of Bartley after
inspecting an orphanage he regularly donated to. He was taking a drink when two
men began loudly arguing at the end of the bar.

Lord
Westover stepped between them, and laughed unabashedly when it was revealed
that the two were arguing over whether the room down the road was haunted by a
routine ghost or a demon.

“Poppycock!”
Westover exclaimed, “nothing of that sort exists!”

But
the two men united in the face of the unbeliever, one of them stepping so far
as to question Lord Westover’s intelligence.

“Me
a dullard?” The Lord cried, “show me this room then, and let me prove to you
there are no ghosts!”

The
two men led Westover to Bartley’s doorstep. The old caretaker was hysterical,
and threatened to shoot Westover if he came near “that Devil room.”
Somehow, though, he was mollified, and reluctantly allowed Westover to remain.

The
two pub-rats bid their powerful friend a good-bye, assuring him they’d be back
in the morning.

“Now!”
Westover said boisterously after they left, “where it this room?”

The
old man took him to it, and left only after giving a bemused Westover his
pistol and making him promise that he’d ring the bedside call-bell “At the
first sign of trouble.”

The
old man left Westover to his devices, and settled down in his room with the
Holy Bible, praying strenuously that the Lord protect and keep Westover.

But
God seems to have taken offense to Lord Westover’s disbelief in Him, for not an
hour later, as the poor old man battled for sleep, a bell began eerily echoing
throughout the house.

As
the old man struggled to his feet, the ominous tinkling was drowned by a
thunderous report.

When
he reached Westover’s room, the Lord was dead, one hand wrapped around the
velvet pull-cord and the other the smoking pistol.

The
old man fled into the night, and refused to ever return, telling a reporter
that he’d “Rather die in a poorhouse than live in a spook house.”

The
death of Lord Westover caused a sensation, and for the first time England in
general became aware of the supposed malignancy at Bartley Square. The public,
fascinated by phantastic accounts in the evening papers and by “true” tales in
the penny dreadfuls, turned a collective eye to the shadowy patch of London
horror, and Bartley became a sideshow attraction.

The
American sold the house in 1848 to a noted spiritualist and alleged sadist
named William J. Hanover, who lived there for three days before finally
establishing a watch in the accursed room with several friends. One of them was
found next morning wandering the streets gibbering, his eyes glassy and far
away. A group of policemen grudgingly went to Bartley, and discovered a scene
of appalling terror. Hanover sat in a darkened corner of the room, the top of
his head dissolved and a pistol clutched loosely in his hand. His two remaining
acquaintances were laid out on the wooden floor, one dead of fright and the
other savaged as if by wild dogs.

Even
the sturdiest of men in run-down industrial town taverns quaked at the mention
of Bartley Square after the Hanover incident. The Hanover estate realized that
selling it would be madness, so the “Spook House” sat empty, decaying and festering
like an open sore on the face of lovely Britain.

By
1918, as the Great War came to an unsatisfying close, the building had
deteriorated considerably, the windows cracking from frigid winters and holes
widening in the sodden roof. A sign had been placed on the door of 5050
declaring the entire structure a hazard, and warning people away, though no one
would dare enter it.

The
final, and perhaps most grizzly, chapter in our saga was begun by two young,
unnamed sailors on shore leave. They had just returned from the European
meat-grinder, and had been making the rounds, visiting every pub and whorehouse
from the East End to the West. In one tavern, they ran into an old enemy from
France, and a fight broke out when they mocked his imaginary cowardice.

Upon
being ejected into the street, the three continued their brawl. A bobby broke
them up, and watched them part, the sailors to the south, the solider to the
north.

It
wasn’t long before our two subjects became drunkenly lost in the maze-like
streets, and were forced to seek refuge in one of the many abandoned buildings
along the walk. Taking no precaution, as drunkards often do, they threw open
the first rusted gate they came to and strode boldly into the middle number of
a row-house.

They
settled down in the front parlour, but the pervading dampness quickly drove
them up the narrow staircase. Taking to the first room on their left, each man
fell quickly asleep, but were almost as swiftly started awake by a horrid
mewling, as though from a cat in pain. Before either one could clear his mind,
they heard the heart-freezing sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs to
the attic. The younger of the two, a mere lad of nineteen or twenty, jumped up
and readied himself for escape. The other, however, sat paralyzed with fear.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

The
footfalls suddenly faded, and not a moment later, the threshold was filled with
a hulking, translucent shadow that seemed to move in an aura of frigid air.

It
then “seeped” into the room, flowing deliberately toward the senior. The junior
was able to break the shackles of terror that bound him, and escaped into the
street, unaware of what was being done to his wailing companion.

He was found several hours later
hiding in an alleyway and trembling like a dog before the boot of a cruel
master. He spilled his incoherent story to the officer who discovered him, but
was mistaken for a madman and locked in the local stationhouse. Not an hour
later, however, a frantic man burst through the door to report a ghastly scene
outside Bartley Square. He led the officer to Bartley’s front gate, upon which
was skewered a savaged human body that had fallen (or rather had been thrown)
from a smashed upstairs window. Its stomach was laid open and its entrails
dangled from the gaping hole, swinging in the early morning breeze.

In
the years since, Bartley has been boarded up and abandoned. A sign hangs upon
the door warning people away, and a bobby is compelled to pass the doorstep
every hour. I haven’t had the chance to investigate the house for myself, but a
colleague of mine has, and while he escaped with his sanity and his life, he
reported being set upon by a ghostly force that attempted to strangle him. He
was half-asleep at the time, so it’s possible that he was beset by a nightmare or
some form of apnea, but, given the history of the house, this is unlikely.

What
haunts Bartley, and where did it come from? Surely, if the testimony of the
Greek maid is to be believed, then something odd had taken residence there as
early as 1821. Some, however, discount her and blame the ghost of the mentally
ill Jonathan. As I have not poked around for myself, I will reserve final
judgment; I will say, however, that the nature of this “ghost” leads me to
believe that it is something more, something infinitely worse...

Write a Review
Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks,
Jrubas

Debby :
I'm glad I finally got around to read it. I like the whole unanswered question of what happened to his parents. I didn't know horror was posed to make me feel sad at the end and not scared. I seriously enjoyed the book. Yes most paragraphs had both characters talking, and those times I had to rer...

Catherine Edward:
I enjoyed reading this story very much. Thanks for sharing it here. It was well written with good descriptions.Rachel travels to the Black Forest Island for an archeological dig and soon finds her team mates missing. When all the puzzle pieces fall into place it was something they weren't prepare...

Isabel Scheck:
This is my second time reading this and it’s still as amazing as the first!I highly highly enjoyed this story and I recommend it to all fantasy fans out there!This story has captured my heart.

kotabsavage91:
This young author really knows her stuff. From the 1st chapter I was sucked in and entertained the book. The characters are rich and well thought out and the plot keeps you guessing all the way through to an imaginatively well exacuted showdown. Keep up the great work, I look forward to more of ...

Greg:
This is a well thought out horror story. The twisti-turns, the creativity, and spot-on dialogue are movie-worthy. It's a perfect horror story that no horror reader can put down. If I were a publisher, I'd look you up.

Christiane von der Heiden:
It is a really gripping concept. I wasn't able to put it down. ☺️ I mean who doesn't think of afterlife at least once in their lives? However, there is some room for improvement. First, as mentioned before a proofreader would do wonders here😜. Or better yet, get an editor. For there are also some...

Hanna Joyce:
This story was great! I couldn't stop reading, I woke up around 5 am and was reading non-stop. The story was so intriguing that I couldn't put it down until I finished it. Personally, I would recommend this story to all of my friends. Good job!

Gargie:
The first meeting between Ava and Adam became the fantasy of my life. I loved the description of Ava’s eyes by Adam. It is different than regular fantasies and I adore the adventures from this book. Looking forward for Ava and Adam adventures’.

Remo “WGG” Wind:
This book is gotta be the best I've read here so far! Amazing plot, well written characters with whom you find yourself attached so quick. It took me 3 days to read it and I must admit that I enjoyed every second of it. Thank you author for this story.

kbranchflower6:
It was so intricate! I loved it. She knew that what she was doing was stupid and did it anyway. It’s such an out of the norm book and I absolutely loved it! It really showed how we go back to things even if they hurt us. I really hope you will have more books for us to read!

Deleted User:
I guess there will not be any sleep tonight. There has to be a reason this story is out. The reason is that it is so good that it needs a part two and maybe even a part three. I enjoyed it so much that I swear I will be sleeping with the lights on tonight. I can still see the images in my head ti...

Louis Bacchi:
Well written and edited. Each chapter makes you anxious for the next. The characters are real and you have empathy for Trinity and want to be with her every step on her journey. the first book leaves you wanting and knowing there is more to come as EVIL continues to try and keep Trinity from fulf...

Other Collections

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.